Tempermental
by Dark Spell
Summary: Unable to hold onto his raging temper, Sean loses control... dark themes [one-shot]


**A/N:**This was missing a chunk of the middle when I first posted it, I apologize for the inconvenience.This isset sometime in season five...Let me know what you think of it, and if you think I'm crazy for writing this. Rated for violence and excessive profanity. Have fun.

* * *

_"You're just a pathetic loser. Quit trying to be such a tough ass." The sunglass-bearing blonde said, grinning widely, revealing his rotting teeth. The group of guys behind him, his new "crew" laughed. Hard to believe I used to be a part of them._

_"Take that back." I growled._

_It didn't matter that he happened to be surrounded by five or six Montreal high school drop-outs who could probably whoop my ass. But right now, Jay was pissing me off. That's all that mattered._

_Jay feigned a frightened look and grinned. "So you think you're tough, eh Cameron? That's a laugh. My grandma could whoop your sorry trailer-boy ass." Breathe. Must breathe. Don't lose your cool Cameron._

_My comeback consisted of a sharp fist connecting with his nose. He stumbled back, bringing his hands to his nose as a crimson liquid poured from his nasal cavities. Looking up, he shot me a glare._

_"Shit." He muttered menacingly. "You're gonna pay for that, you little fucker." _

_In mere seconds I saw him lung at me in the dark. I took a step towards my right to dodge him, only to have a fist slam into my jaw. My hand went to my cheek as I stumbled forward blindly, my jaw searing. Once I got my footing I stood up and glanced over at Jay. He was staring at me a few feet away, grinning like a lunatic. _

_"Not so tough now, are you Cameron?" He sneered and took a few steps towards me. Shut the fuck up Jay. _

_"Aw, come on. We're just gettin started here." He lifted his hands out of his pockets and raised them up for emphasis, gaining a few jeers and laughs from his crew. He spun around to face them, like a prize wrestler who'd just won a match. I was the knocked-out loser who had become yesterday's fighter. I clenched my fists, breathing hard, trying to remember the anger management tactics my social worker had given me when I was thirteen. Jay turned around to face me. "I'm gunna shove that attitude of yours right up your pathetic ass. You sorry piece of shit." Breathe Sean, come on, don't lose your cool. _

_As soon as Jay had finished his little speech, he raced towards me._

_On instinct, I shifted my body underneath his and flipped him over my back. I heard him hit the conrete behind me. Hard. Before he could get back up on his feet, I whipped around andsat on top of him, my hands throwing punches aimed for his face. As my fists made contact with flesh, all the words and insults he had aimed at me burned through my mind. Trailer boy... Sorry piece of shit... And suddenly, I lost it. All mycalm notions andanger management tactics made an exit through my ears. All that remained was a need to hit Jay. To hurt him so badly I'd never be made fun of again._

_So I launched my fists at his face, over and over again. Eventually, he stopped trying to defend himself by flailing his arms and lowered them to the concrete. I heard fragments of screams and desperate cries in the background, but ignored them. I just kept hitting him, my fists now drenched in a warm liquid that wasn't my own. That didn't stop me, I kept going, slamming my hands down on him, Jay's face now a dark shade that I couldn't make out in the blackness of the night. _

_I heard the faint sound of sirens in the background as I kept launching my fists into his flesh. And in mere moments, I felt someone make a grab for me. I shoved them off and kept hitting Jay, I couldn't stop. I was finally releasing all the pain and tension he'd caused me the past few years. _

_It felt good to __beat the shit out of him._

_I felt a few more people latch their hands onto me and attempt to drag me away. I struggled and threw out my fists at them. Eventually, they yanked me off of Jay's immobile form. I thrashed wildly. I didn't want to stop. I wanted to keep hitting him. To finally show him that I was superior. "Get the fuck off me!" I yelled and threw a punch at one of the figures. He stumbled backwards. I raised my fist to hit another one of my attackers, only to have something hard make contact with my head._

_Then everything went black._

* * *

Hours later, I found myself sitting on a cold metal chair, behind a metal table, chained to the ground, and in an empty stoned room that gave off the eerie feeling of death. My clothes from earlier had been taken away, replaced with new garments. The neon orange jumpsuit was stiff and reaked of a mixture of vomit and blood, probably from the past wearers. I fingered the frayed edges of the sleeves. Was I condemned to wear this God awful attire? 

Eventually,a stubby, middle-aged and nervous-looking man entered the room. Probably just getting to have his first case by the nervous expression on his face. He looked like he was going to have a nervous break down right in front of me. God, if loser had a photographic example, he'd be it. I doubt he'd ever even banged someone. Maybe his mother... If he was lucky.

I let out a small chuckle at the thought. The man gulped and pushed his glasses back up from the edge of his pointy nose. He took a few meager steps towards me, gulping loudly. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, the door opened behind him. I instantly recognized the grungy, tired-looking man as my older brother. Tracker. I sighed, somewhat relieved. Tracker could get me out of here.

Tracker shot a glance at me and sighed. "Can I talk to him? Privately."

"Usually it's best if we speak to him first." The stubby man in the suit piped up, pining in comparison to my brother.

Tracker bit his lip and peered down at the man. "Look, he's my brother. I just need a minute."

The man glanced over at me, fear showing in his eyes like a neon Motel 6 advertisement. Then, with a look back at Tracker, he nodded and scurried out of the room, leaving my alone to face my brother.

Tracker ran a hand over the stubble he called a beard, pacing back and forth in front of me. Come on Tracker, let's get this over with. I knocked a kid out, big fucking deal. It's not like I hadn't done it before.

"Damn. You've really screwed up big this time, eh Sean?" He mused, pausing in front of me. His eyes bore into mine. I looked away, unable to face him.

"So I knocked a guy out. I've done it before, it's no big deal Tracker." I said dully, sighing loudly. I picked at the edges of my jumpsuit. Everyone always seems to make a big deal out of nothing. Someone shoves me, nobody cares. I shove back, it's the end of the fucking world. It's always a big game of let's play pick on the poor kid. And honestly, I was fucking sick of it.

Tracker buried his hands in the pockets of his old jeans. "Sean. He's dead. Y... You killed him." He muttered coldly. My eyes darted up to him. Killed? No way. No way in hell.

"T-that's bullshit." I stammered out. But as Tracker stared back at me, I could tell he wasn't kidding.

He ran a hand through his messy hair and took a seat in the rusty metal chair opposite me, cupping his hands in front of him on the iron table. With the dark bags under his eyes, grungy clothes and unshaved face he looked more like a junkie off the street than my brother.

"It's not Sean." Tracker mumbled gravely. I looked down at my calloused hands, they didn't feel like my own anymore. They had killed someone. I had killed someone. I was no better than some forty-year-old felon. Suddenly I felt as if I couldn't breathe, like all the oxygen had been squeezed out of my lungs. I started panting for air.

"...Tracker!" I gasped out. "I-I... I didn't mean to. Believe me, I didn't!"

He gave me a solemn look. Looking in his eyes, I didn't find the frustrated look I'd seen before, when I deafened Tyler. It was different. His eyes were filled with a sorrow, a deeply buried sadness. Pity. It hit me like a rock to the head. It was like some man feeling sorry for a retard. I was the retard. At least, I was in my brother's mind.

Two bulky officers sauntered into the room. My brother glanced over at them and then back to me. He massaged his eyes and stared at the table, in attempt to cover his emotion. I gulped as the officers paused next to the table, eyeing me carefully.

"Sean... They're gonna take you away, these men. You have to stay there bro, until we can get you a trial date... So just, just be a good kid..." Tracker rambled softly. "...Just be good bro..."

"...Track-" I started.

"Just be good..." He finished for me, sounding more like a drill sergeant than my older brother. The officers yanked me out of my seat and forcefully led me out of the stone room. As I took one last look at my un-shaven brother, I still couldn't believe I had gotten myself into such a shit hole.

How could I?... Am I possessed? Crazy? Sadistic? As the officers led me down the grim and sterile hallway, I desperately searched the recesses of my mind for some excuse. As we reached the end of the hallway, a man with a clipboard eyed me carefully.

"Suspect in a homicide case. Sean Cameron." The officer to my right muttered in disgust. The man with the clipboard nodded and pushed open the door behind him, reading "Wing One". The officers dragged me through the doors and into one of the many cells. As the iron bars shut in front of me, I glanced around the room. It was small and icy. A small bed in one corner, a toilet, a sink, and a mirror. I walked over to the mirror, my reflection stared back at me. It sneered at me, silently screaming about the failure I'd become.

As I stared in the mirror, I saw the night's incident replay itself. Jay shoving me. His crew laughing and pointing at me, their eyes begging for him to humiliate me. Jay running at me. Jay on the ground. Me hitting him. Over. And over. Blood pouring from his face. Covering my hands, drenching my clothes. His body going limp. People screaming. Bright lights. A car pulling up. Me, being dragged away by several men in dark uniforms. The cold metal of hand cuffs securing my hands.

I blinked. Returning to my desolate cell surroundings. I stared into the mirror again, this time only seeing a young boy, dressed in a grimey orange jumpsuit. I fit every part of the word criminal. Staring at the image in the mirror, the officer's words echoed through my mind, icy, cold, and ugly.

_Suspect._

_Homicide._

_Sean Cameron..._

_Murder._

_Sean Cameron._

_murder-er._

_Sean Cameron._

I am Sean Cameron. A murderer at seventeen.


End file.
